My son is an alcoholic.

My son is an alcoholic. That's why
I didn't give birth to them. (I didn't
presume my own son's gendersexual
identity choice or preference, just then.) (I
assume my son would be woke like 
me, or that I would correct them 
eventually to the point where one 
of us would woke up. In break or bend,
I don't bet on me! Smart money's
on pup,) but yet, here's more
to the point:

I didn't give birth.

In some ways, you could call me
a traditionalist, and one of those ways
I'd say is this: giving birth is a mystery
ritual which unfolds in an agony and 
bliss (?) whose rites I'd reserve elsewhere,
just now. Not that I'm saying a woman's
required, no! Or has to, oh hell no. Figure
it out! I'm just saying 

Anyhow. I didn't give birth. And not 
because alcoholics deserve not to live, 
but this is my son 

we're talking about, just here. Please. 

Don't speak your turn, if you haven't 
a clue from experience you 
haven't been privy to 
in this, your
life. 

If you do
pop out (of
your turn, with your chime-in
piped-up clout) I might get so mad

I swear,

I could make you my wife. Like that. Right
here. Just how. You should hold my beer
while I kick your ass. Now.
Are we clear? 

O, yeah. That's right. 

Just pass. 

I can see your end from here, 
and it's passable, 
but it's not quite right. From 
a narrative arc standpoint, I'd say 
you've got growing to do. Now:
flight, or fight, or fright, I think 

we should try it your way. So 
what do you say or want to do?

I can't talk you in, but I might 
talk you out. Hey, my man - 

let's call it a day and screw
in the night. There's no cause 
here we should answer to.